Hangnail
by TJ Robinson
Summary: House and Wilson talk about what happened using a very interesting example...


A/N: This was originally written for a creative project in Language Arts, and the teacher just didn't get what I was getting at when she read the story. Maybe it'll be better understood here.

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Hangnail**

Another evening wasted at the hospital, but not for working. This time I had to stay late packing up my office. During the time that I was packing, I kept thinking about it. I had been fired. Just like what happened to other people everyday.

I called myself a moron for acting so silly. I hated working at Princeston-Plainsboro anyway; I had earned nothing from it. But I couldn't help and feel like I would miss the place.

Knock.

Knock.

I didn't answer. The culprit walked in: Wilson. He had been fired too. I guess it's true, some friends do everything together.

"I can't believe she fired us." Wilson, of course, was referring to Cuddy.

"Actually, I was fired by her and the other 13 people on the hospital committee board. You were fired by him." 'Him' translated to Vogler. "Vogler gave you the boot, James."

"He did it because I was trying to save your job, House."

I sneered at him. "I hate working here. Go tell him that you changed your mind and that you didn't want me working here after all. I'm sure he'll give you a giant, black bear hug and welcome you back into the Princeton-Plainsboro medical team."

Wilson rubbed his forehead. "How was I supposed to know that you, honest-to-God, didn't want to work here? I mean, yes, you've never shown much enthusiasm towards working... at all... but you would at least think that you would want to keep the job so you could support yourself."

"I don't make that much money on this job. For some reason, diagnostics just isn't as important as curing some snotty-nosed kid with allergies."

He sighed. "Sometimes trying to be a good friend to you is pointless, which would usually mean that I would get off easy, but you have this strange way of making people do things that put important things at risk. Like jobs, marriages..."

I stopped him. "Don't you have packing to do?" I threw my giant felt baseball into the box on top of a few books. Limping over to my desk, I sat down and placed my cane on the desk, taking one last look in the drawers.

Wilson took a seat in the chair in front of my desk, signifying that he was probably going to stay here for a while. "I don't know what I'm going to tell my wife... she's going to kill me."

I started flipping through a diagnostics book I had found on the desk, back from my medical school days. I placed it in the box. "If she didn't kill you for cheating on her, then she's not going to kill you now." His eyes shot down towards the floor. I had gone into place where I shouldn't have been dwelling.

I thought about apologizing, but decided against it. He should know better than to complain around me.

I continued to throw various items into unlabeled boxes. "Look, we all deal with loss in different ways. You prefer to complain and sulk about it in an attempt to numb your pain, while I choose to deal with it and just get it over with."

"Not all of us are as strong-spirited as you, House. I mean, you had to get part of your leg cut off because of muscle death, and yet, you still have enough power in you to resent your ex-girlfriend for saving your life. And then, Stacy comes to work in the same hospital and you try even harder to hate her for what she did. Now that's what I call a strong spirit."

"What does that have to do with anything? I'm not talking about Stacey, my leg, or being strong-spirited. Maybe I should have explained in simpler terms; at least then you wouldn't come up with silly comparisons. "

He glared at me and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not stupid House. I know what you were getting at. I was trying to be sarcastic."

I got up and hobbled over to him. "Apparently you didn't do it very well, because I didn't get it. What will make it so that you will understand?" I placed a fake look of deep thought of my face. "OK, how about this: losses and hangnails are _basically_ the same thing."

"Losses and hangnails? Now _that's _a silly comparison."

I looked at him. "You didn't let me finish. I meant that dealing with loss is like dealing with a hangnail. You can do it in a variety of ways."

"Such as...?"

I sighed. "All right, when you get a hangnail, what do you usually do with it?"

He gave me a wide-eyed look. "How am I supposed to know that?"

I felt my leg getting tired. Walking back over to my desk, I placed my cane on the arm of the chair and clenched my hands together, trying my best to do a 'scholar' look.

With a look of contempt, Wilson eyed me. "Go on."

"There are a variety of ways of dealing with both a hangnail and a loss. You could try to numb the pain and try to make everything all better before you rip it off and let reality come rushing in; you could just rip it off and forget about it. Or, you could just let it sit there until it goes away by itself."

I sat back in my chair. "So, pick a way and deal with your loss Wilson. Do something with that hangnail nagging at you."

He was lost in thought, probably still confused over what I had said. "You should have become a writer, Greg. You could be as sarcastic, grumpy, secluded, and artistic as you are now, and they wouldn't fire you."

I smiled. "Thanks for the career choice. But I think I'll stick to unemployment. There are less people to deal with, and I can get disability benefits."

Wilson looked at his watch. "It's almost eleven, and I have to be out of here by midnight. I'll talk to you later House." Standing quickly, he walked out of my office for the last time, throwing a quick wave over his shoulder.

I silently packed the rest of my belongings into various boxes. Turning off the computer and light, I left the key to the office on the desk and went out into the hallway. Realizing I couldn't carry all the boxes down, I got help from a janitor who brought them to my car.

I didn't much care about the contents of the boxes, so I just threw them into my truck and slammed the hood down. I limped over to the door and yanked it open, only to feel a sharp pain on my pointer finger.

"Dang it." I looked to see what had happened.

A hangnail.

I thought about ripping it off and just forgetting about it, or trying to numb it first, or just letting it sit there.

I guess that was two things I couldn't decide about how to deal with: getting fired and a stupid hangnail.

After arguing with myself, I decided to rip it off. I threw it on the ground and got into my car, driving away from the hospital. I had made two choices in a matter in seconds and I had dealt with both.

And the funny thing was, even though they both left a stinging, nagging pain, I knew wouldn't miss either one. I rolled down my window and spat.

"Good riddens."


End file.
